Food and Wine With a Story

Key Lime Pie, with a story

2012-02-05T11:06:00.001-05:00

Tonight is our "marriage group" meeting and dinner, and I'm bringing Key Lime Pie.

Twenty-five years ago, when my husband and I thought we needed to improve our marriage (which really didn't need improving in retrospect-- compared to the jolt we could use today), we attended a weekend couple's marriage therapy group. Eight of us (four couples) formed a splinter group, and still meet quarterly-- a testament to either our deep connection to each other, or to just plain inertia. In these 25 years, despite one couple's relocation (first to New York then to Maine), 3 deaths (one original husband/wife team is gone, completely gone; and another husband--dead), a birth (my daughter Elly, now 25), and a divorce (although the divorcee remarried, brought her new husband into the group, and he died), we have persisted--remarkable; enough to mention in a Key lime pie recipe blog.

But what's most remarkable is that out of those 4 couples who began meeting weekly in 1980, there remains

2 widows,

my husband,

me.

Four individuals.

So, since this is a blog about Key lime pie, the dessert I'm bringing to tonight's "marriage-group dinner" as we've come to refer to it, the pie needs to serve at least 4.

The first thing I have to say about making key lime pie is don't use Key limes! If, like me, you try to use only authentic ingredients in your cooking, give it up. Buy the bottled stuff, or if you must, buy conventional limes from the supermarket. In the end it won't amount to a hill of beans that you took the extra time (and gasoline to drive to the one and only place around that carries key limes in February) to painstakingly cut each wretched green ball in half and ream out shockingly few drops of juice at a time, taking upwards of an hour, to accumulate "1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons!"

Secondly, and another departure for me, if you can find graham cracker crumbs (I'm not sure these exist, but if they don't someone ought to market them), you won't have to beat the crap out of graham crackers in a plastic bag to make the crust. Just make sure the pre-packaged crumbs are fresh--check the sell-by date.

Third, Key lime pie is not green--it's yellow!

There are a zillion key lime pie recipes on the Internet--this is a version of one of them that, with packaged crumbs and bottled juice, is a snap.

For one 9" pie--serves 6
The Crust:
1 and 1/4 cups graham cracker crumbs, or 10-11 double graham crackers smashed into not-too-fine crumbs
2 tablespoons sugar
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted

The Filling:
1 (14-oz.) can sweetened condensed milk
4 large egg yolks
1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons Key lime juice, or a whole bag of reamed and tortured Key limes

The Topping:
3/4 cup chilled heavy cream, beaten to firm peaks (adding sugar to the cream is optional; the pie is sweet enough so you don't notice the absence of sweetness in the whipped cream).

Preheat oven to 350 degrees

In a bowl with a fork, stir together the crumbs, the sugar, and the butter until well-combined. Press mixture evenly on the bottom and up the sides of a 9" pie plate--glass works best.

Bake crust in middle of oven for 10 minutes, cool on a rack. Leave the oven on.

Whisk together the milk and the yolks in a bowl until well-combined. Add the juice and whisk again until well-combined. Pour filling into crust and bake in middle of oven for about 15 minutes. Cool pie on a rack (filling will set as it cools) and when completely cool chill covered for at least 8 hours.

With an electric mixer, beat cream in bowl until it holds firm peaks and spread on top of pie, or serve a dollop on each slice.

Enjoy!

More Light From Piazza

2011-12-02T10:13:00.000-05:00

Isn't it gorgeous?! It's hot off the presses, as they say. It isn't even on-line yet. I think this is one of the best covers yet--another Michael Piazza winner.

My article (Occupy Pearl St.) for this season is kind of stuck in the back but it's still worth reading, if you're interested in how farmers markets really run. If you want to read the article online, you'll have to wait for the digital version of the magazine, unless you subscribe, or find the magazine at Whole Foods or at one of the dozens of businesses throughout the Boston area that display the magazine.

There are recipes for a Hot Toddy and for gingerbread--things to get your holiday started.

Pick up a copy and enjoy it this weekend.

Peach Fuzz

2011-11-21T13:14:00.000-05:00

WARNING:

The scenes you are about to see contain images which may be offensive to some viewers.

Don't let this happen to you.

Although I did get around to picking our peaches this year, and I did manage to peel them, chop them and put them all into a huge pot to make jam at a later date,

I forgot about them,

since August.

This morning I was lookng around for a big pot to use to brine a turkey for Thanksgiving and I remembered this one in the frig in the basement. I screamed when I lifted the lid.

Kind of cool, though...

otherworldly...

like constellations and other universes;

more like gray matter, actually, which I seem to be losing more and more of every day.

Happy Thanksgiving.

big cadillac dreamer

2011-11-18T08:30:00.001-05:00

November 17th. A damp, gray, chill afternoon; first day so far this year that it actually feels like it’s getting on to winter.

Time to bake a cake.

I don’t do much baking anymore. There are so many good bakeries around, why bother.
But today I feel the urge.

A quick look through my most obliging cookbooks (meaning that most are dust-covered or falling apart or in hard-to-reach places) turns fruitless—too many pies and cooked-fruit desserts, which I love but am not in the mood for. So I haul out my personal recipe file—a manila folder

(does anyone say “manila” anymore?)

stuffed with stained and fragile recipes, loosely organized in paper-clipped bundles. It is a treasure, this folder, full of a life-times’ worth of curated works.

I find the one for chocolate cake.

It’s written by my hand, in red pen, on a small sheet of stationary. The sheet has a logo at the top that says Stop and Go Transmissions, and a cartoon-looking picture of a 1970's traffic light. Within the red light at top is the word "stop," and written inside the green light is "go." “Transmissions are our business—our only business. Free Pickup—Free Towing—Free Delivery,” is the tag line. It was a business my father owned—seems it always comes back to my father.

In 1979 when my father was about 55 years old, with a couple of kids still at home (5 were already grown-up), he bought a Stop & Go Transmissions franchise. The timeline is a little murky because he changed businesses so often. We all thought he was nuts—he knew nothing about cars; he was a restaurant & lounge kind of guy, a "Dewar's & water" man, as my brother Joe described him once. In the 2005 eulogy to my father, Joe
wrote

Lover of the long shot
big Cadillac dreamer
double-breasted suit wearer
money loaner
story teller
risk taker
hell of a guy...

But my father insisted that this business would provide the big pay-out--next stop: easy-street.

The business was pretty successful for a while, but he was restless—he tired of it after five years, and moved on to buy the Elbow Room Lounge. That’s where I bartended for a while, and met Half-Man and Texaco Jack (but that’s another story).

Some time not long after this era, I acquired the recipe for this chocolate cake. I have no idea where the recipe came from and no recollection of writing it down. But I’ve made it a thousand times and it’s always good; pretty easy, too.

I bet you have all the ingredients on hand right now to make it. Who doesn’t have cocoa powder (there’s probably a can of it kicking around somewhere in that pantry), or eggs, baking soda, sugar, salt, flour, vanilla?

My sister Susan, a great cook, makes her own vanilla extract and gave me some as a birthday present. Standing inside the little medicine bottle is a real vanilla bean.

I wanted to use-up lots of pantry items before replenishing my stocks for Thanksgiving cooking. So I added in chopped hazelnuts, walnuts and dried Medjool dates—just a handful of each, even though the cake could have used more. I didn’t adjust the proportions of any of the other ingredients and the cake was great.

I made two, one for home and one to take to my daughter in New York. She's a starving young actress—which is yet another story.

Stop & Go Chocolate Cake
1 well-buttered 9" or 10" bundt pan (adjust cooking time accordingly)

In a saucepan on the stove top bring to boil
1 stick of butter
1 cup water
1/2 cup vegetable oil
4 TBSP unsweetened cocoa powder (I used Ghirardelli's)

In a mixing bowl combine
2 cups flour
2 cups sugar
2 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp salt
(and any dry ingredients in your pantry you'd like to add)

Combine the two mixtures and beat with electric mixer until well mixed.

Then add
2 eggs
1/2 cup buttermilk or sour cream (I didn't have either so I used plain yogurt)
1 tsp. vanilla extract

Beat until smooth.

350 degrees for 50 minutes to 1 hour (yum).

Venice Floats My Boat

2011-11-12T11:20:00.004-05:00

On the day we left Venice there were seven cruise ships (7!) docked at the Porto di Venezia, a short walk from the apartment Jerry and I were renting. The ships had names:

The Happy Dolphin,

Europa Palace,

Crystal Serenity,

Ocean Princess,

names that conspire to transport you away from the reality of being on a boat with thousands, all clamoring to get out and onto the slender, temporal islands of Venice.

The ships are massive: towering white behemoths out of all proportion to the delicate scale of the city.

Their wake dredges the canals; the backwash erodes the ancient walls and wooden foundations of the city. You watch them move slowly, mirage-like, across your line of vision, blotting out the serene landscape as they go.

They are part of the reason Venice is sinking and ironically, grudgingly, the reason it still floats.

The number of tourists the boats steadily disgorge make up part of the 20 million that visit Venice every year, keeping it relevant despite its rising cost of living and scarcity of jobs.

Venice is (roughly) only twice the size of Central Park and has a population of 270,000, give or take.

Tourism is not a reason to not visit Venice. You just have to have a strategy: choose a good time to go, and stay away from Piazza San Marco (and do read John Berendt’s book, City of Falling Angels, first).

We went at the end of September, figuring it would be the tail-end of the tourist season, but we were wrong. One hotel keeper I spoke to told me that there really isn't a "season" any longer. Tourists come all summer long (she said with a little repugnance), and they continue to come in autumn because it’s not so hot. But the city is inundated at Christmas time, too, then again for Carnivale in February, for Easter in April--and then it’s summer again.

There’s little down time for Venice—you just have to deal.

And we did. It was wonderful. I would go back today if I had the chance.

Venice is what the word awesome was meant to describe. Everywhere you look you see a Renaissance tableau, familiar in a sense, but realizing that this is the real thing makes you giddy. Landscapes of spires and ancient stone, palaces, velvet and old wood, shimmering water—these scenes surround and follow you wherever you go.

What you don’t see or hear are cars—you know there are no cars in Venice, don’t you? There are no roads, only canals, only boats. It is disarming to be in the midst of a major city, teeming with tourists and street vendors and side walk cafes and of course all those cruise ships, and yet hear no normal street noise, no cars, no buzzing scooters.

It dawns on you gradually, this absence of motor sounds. Walk a little way away from one of the large canals and all is quiet, hushed, conversations are intimate, everyone is whispering secrets.

We walked a lot. The weather was perfect.

We mostly stumbled upon things-- a concert of Vivaldi in the beautiful Chiesa San Vidal;
a Roshashana Service in progress in the Venetian Ghetto which included the blowing of the shofar;

the restored Gran Teatro La Fenice (the opera house which burned down in 1996 which we had read about in great detail in Berendt’s book); and the pluperfect fifteenth-century church, Santa Maria dei Miracoli, a miracle in marble thanks to the painstaking 10-year restoration by Save Venice.

We bought 3-day passes for the vaporetti and were able to take these water shuttle boats anywhere, getting on and off as often as we pleased. On one cloudless warm day, we took a vaporetto all the way to the island of Torcello, sailing out past the Lido, past Murano and Burano.

Torcello is the tiny island out in the lagoon, reached after an hour’s vaporetto ride, including several transfers.

The island’s main attraction is the seventh century cathedral of Santa Maria Assunta, the oldest building remaining in all of Venice. Inside are golden Bysantine mosaics which tell the story of the ancient Eastern Church. Photos are not allowed, as the young guards remind us repeatedly each time another visitor points a camera—“No photo… No photo,” comes the weary reprimand, and I wonder how many times a day this poor student has to repeat this.

On Torcello, we ate lunch at a surprisingly large but mostly empty, beautiful restaurant called Ristorante Villa ‘600. I didn’t ask what the ‘600 meant; maybe that was the seating capacity. It had an expansive lush lawn for weddings and events, a large open-air dining room, and a patio. We ate on the patio, in the warm, autumn sun.

The staff spoke no English but were very friendly and happy to have us. The restaurant menu makes use of all the local fish that is readily available from the Adriatic. We did, too.

One of the items I noticed listed on many of the restaurant menus in Venice was Baccala Mantecato. I had never had baccala--that leathery-looking, completely unappealing package of dried cod you see occasionally in the market. But since it kept showing up in Venice I figured it must be a local specialty and worth trying. I’m so glad I did because it’s delicious; a fantastic appetizer. It’s prepared as a sort of spread for crusty bread, or on top of a slice of grilled polenta. It’s light and fluffy, very white, and very flavorful. Paired with a young Tocai Friulano, it makes a perfect small meal.

Here is a recipe for it, with thanks to dishdujourmagazine.com, followed by a few more of photos taken with my "smart" phone.

Buon Appetito!

Baccala Mantecato

Serves 6

½ lb. skinned, boneless salted cod

4 cups milk

1 chopped clove garlic

1 cup evoo

¼ cup cleaned, chopped Italian parsley, stems removed

Soak the fish in cold water for 48 hours in refrigerator. Every 6 hours drain and change the water to remove the salt. After the first day, cut up the fish into small chunks.

After the chunks of fish have been soaked, drained and dried completely bring the milk to a boil and add the fish. Once the fish has been added lower the heat, cover the pot and cook for 20 minutes.

Using a slotted spoon, remove the fish from the milk, but don’t discard the mild, and place fish into a colander to drain.

Place the fish into a large mixing bowl, add the garlic and most of the parsley. Using a hand held mixer on high speed, thoroughly blend ingredients. While continuing to mix, drizzle in the olive oil until the texture is a white creamy paste. Add salt and pepper to taste. Continue to mix on high speed adding as much of the milk as needed to attain a creamy and fluffy texture. Garnish with the remaining parsley and serve at room temperature.

Smells Like Moon

2011-08-19T10:45:00.034-04:00

I've found a new way to avoid writing.

It's this cool little atomizer that spritzes the screen of my smart phone and comes with a little chamois cloth that wipes away all the greasy schmears from finger swiping and other "gesture techniques". I can get the screen really, really clean if I apply a little pressure, and a little time--or a lot of time, depending on how desperately I'm procrastinating at the moment. There's no end to the amount of time one can fritter-away staring incredulously at the lovely, colorful display of all those apps (is it 10,00 or 100,000?), and of course one can always read about smart phones. And, lucky for writers like me, until one becomes adept at using the frustratingly jumpy touch screen, sending text messages couldn't take longer.

Another thing I've been doing to avoid writing is reading about writing. And I've discovered my disorder is not so unusual--I'm in good company as Anne Lamott assures me in her book Bird By Bird. If you haven't already read it (it was published in 1994!) you've got to get it. It's an accumulation of all the advice she's ever given to writers in her college writing classes and professional workshops.

Mostly it's about how to get started, how to actually sit down, stop procrastinating and put your fingers on that keyboard! She's hilarious.

And a great comfort to daydreamers like me.

She writes about how the number one question she gets from her students, even in the very first class, is "how do I get published." She tells them this is the least of their worries; that in all probability they will not ever be published; and that even if they are published, they will never get rich on it. She's quite blunt and honest about this. She describes how jealousy can stop-up a writer's creativity.

Lamott spends a whole chapter talking about how most writers she knows are paranoid and insecure-- plagued with worrying that all their colleagues are conspiring against them and secretly getting ahead, professionally--the implication being that they (Lamott and her neurotic writer friiends) are being left behind. She says you can be defeated by the paranoia, or use it as comic relief. One of the several poems she uses in the book as poignant examples of her advice is this one by Phillip Lopate:

We who are
your closest friends
feel the time
has come to tell you
that every Thursday
we have been meeting,
as a group,
to devise ways
to keep you
in perpetual uncertainty
frustration
discontent and
torture
by neither loving you
as much as you want
nor cutting you adrift.
Your analyst is
in on it,
plus your boyfriend
and your ex-husband;
and we have pledged
to disappoint you
as long as you need us.

It goes on...

But I won't.

I do have to get down to writing.

The book is worth reading more than once though, and I may read it again as soon as I finish it this time.

Oh, and the reference at the top of this posting to the moon? It's in there. It's something Lamott's son said, when he was about three. It's an example of using our senses when writing. I can't find the exact spot in the book where she describes this scene but if you give me another 1/2 hour or so I'd be happy to look for it.

Being From Away

2011-07-18T09:00:00.003-04:00

North Haven Island, Day 10

Two weeks is a long time—two weeks of sparkling, clear days, one just like the next. There is something about the quality of the light here on North Haven that makes you want to freeze the moment, dance in the sun, cry. Things can be so perfect.

Like a ship-to-shore communication from an earlier time, my text message to my daughters read, “Another beautiful day on the island. Running out of things to do. Dad getting ancy.”

I’ve been trying for days to write about this island, this North Haven, Maine, but I admit I’m not up to the task. It takes a much better writer than I to do it justice. I could write simply that it’s the most beautiful place in the world, but that statement might be easily dismissed--besides, I haven’t been everywhere. I could say there’s a photo-op around each corner (at the crest of each rise in the smooth, undulating roads), but that would be trite. I could say simply that this island’s beauty is hard to capture in words, but wouldn’t that be a cop-out?

Maybe I’ll just let Elizabeth Bishop say it for me. Her 1978 now famous poem, North Haven, was written in memoriam to her good friend Robert Lowell. She wrote:

I can make out the rigging of a schooner
a mile off; I can count
the new cones on the spruce. It is so still
the pale bay wears a milky skin; the sky
no clouds except for one long, carded horse's tail.

At its widest points, the island of North Haven is roughly 12 miles long and 3 miles wide. It sits in Penobscot Bay, about 15 miles off the coast of Rockland, Maine, separated by about a half mile of blue water from the larger island of Vinalhaven. Foy Brown or someone else from the boatyard can take you over to Vinalhaven anytime. Round trip passage is $7; $2 extra for your bike.

There are about 350 year-round residents. With “the summer people,” the number swells to 2000. No one wants to leave; come September, most do.

Writers are drawn to this place, as are artists.

I am intrigued with the island names. I meet them all in the two short weeks we are here. Kate Quinn. Stretch Perkins. Kiki Hamlin. Foy Brown. June Hopkins. Stacy Beverage. Others are good-sounding names I encounter all over the island--Hallowell, Cooper, Waterman, Thayer, Cabot and Calderwood. You get the picture.

June Hopkins, a prominent island resident, who has lived here for almost a decade of decades still considers herself “from away.”

The main “industry” is lobstering. Despite this, lobsters sell at Cooper's in the village, for $9.90 a lb.

There is no supermarket, just a small grocery store that carries all the basics. No pharmacy, an occasional bakery, no hardware or liquor store.

What there is?
One gas pump for the whole island, two restaurants, one inn, three gift shops open irregular hours, two art galleries showing the work of New England’s (and beyond’s) best artists, a busy boatyard (Foy’s), a gorgeous library, a tiny post office. And anchoring it all: Waterman’s Community Center. The social history of the island can be learned hanging out at Waterman’s (which has wi-fi, for a $5 donation).

Despite all it lacks in commercial consumer goods though, it is possible to eat a mainly locavore diet in the summer on North Haven.

There’s the big farm up on South Shore Road, Turner Farm. It’s open Tuesdays and Thursdays. Turner Farm has a huge, new, beautiful barn. If you’re a barn lover, this is the barn you would fantasize building—post and beam, lofty, all warm wood and clean sawdust. Turner sells vegetables, goat cheese and eggs.

Foggy Meadow Farm on Crabtree Point Road, near our rented house, has a herd of goats and sheep and sells their meat. Doreen, the owner and a children's book author, will take you out to the shed if she’s there, otherwise it’s self serve from the freezer.

A small Farmer’s Market sets up Saturday mornings at 9:30 all summer, in the ball field across from the church. If it rains, it’s held inside the church. The vendors include a young man who bakes bread, a woman who grows beautiful flowers in her garden (the delphiniums were an iridescent blue), a few more local bakers, Turner Farm, and a local graphic artist selling t-shirts. I did say small didn’t I? You'll meet everyone there, it being the main event of the week. And vendors sell-out usually by 10:00 AM.

And there’s North Haven Oyster Company, up on Middle Road. This too is self-serve, self-pay. On one of the days we pulled our car up to the old refrigerator standing in the driveway and helped ourselves to a baker’s dozen for $10, as the sign instructed, we saw a man laid-out on a board nearby. “Hurt my back,” said the body. He didn’t get up and that’s all he said. We took our oysters, put ten dollars in the can, and left. (The oysters were delicious and briny and worth the struggle to get them open, btw).

The use of credit cards is rare—it’s a mostly cash-only island. The honor system of paying is common.

There’s a song written about the island, a teenager’s lament called, “I Have Six Mothers, Three Hundred Fifty Babysitters.”

Kayaking one morning on the smooth, clear waters of Bartlett’s Harbor we encountered a curious seal who popped up to check us out, then dove. Two silent porpoises slipped by, ignoring us, as if in deep conversation. A mother osprey sitting on her nest atop Pulpit Rock shouted her warning not to approach too closely.

Everyone waves.

All along the roads, we pass field after field that oblige us with open vistas of the sea.

We saw fire works from Camden clear across the harbor on the 4th of July.

Although we were there a little too early in the season for blueberry-picking, I found what sounds like a sensational recipe for wild blueberry tart in the New York Times (August, 2008), written by someone who lived on North Haven. I'm planning to make this as soon as I can pick some local blues.

Enjoy!

North Haven Wild-Blueberry Tart

1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter

1/3 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar

1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract

Salt

Dash of cinnamon

* cup flour

1/2 cup plus 1 tablespoon rolled oats

1/4 cup finely chopped blanched almonds

3 1/2 cups fresh wild blueberries (see note)

2 tablespoons cornstarch

Grated zest of 1 lemon

2 teaspoons lemon juice

1 tablespoon confectioners' sugar

Whipped cream or vanilla ice cream (optional).

1. Using a mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, cream the butter and 1/3 cup of the sugar until light and fluffy. Beat in the vanilla, a pinch of salt and the cinnamon. Using a wooden spoon, stir in the flour, rolled oats and almonds. Shape into a disk, wrap in plastic and refrigerate for 30 minutes. Press the chilled dough into a 9-inch tart pan with a removable bottom. Wrap in plastic and freeze for 30 minutes.

2. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Transfer the tart pan directly from the freezer to the oven and bake until the crust is golden, 15 to 20 minutes. Remove from the oven, and using paper towels to protect your hands, gently press the hot crust, which will have risen a bit, back into the pan. Cool slightly on a wire rack before adding the berry filling.

3. Rinse the blueberries, shake them dry in a colander and transfer them to a large bowl. In a small bowl, mix the cornstarch with the remaining 2 tablespoons of sugar, the lemon zest and a pinch of salt. Stir it and the lemon juice into the berries, bruising the berries slightly with a fork. Transfer the berry mixture to the crust and distribute the berries evenly. Bake in the oven for 20 to 25 minutes.

4. Cool completely on a rack. Sprinkle with the confectioners' sugar and, if you choose, serve with whipped cream or vanilla ice cream. Serves 6 to 8.

NOTE: Do not use frozen blueberries. Domestic blueberries may be substituted for wild.

I Never Promised You a Rose Garden

2011-06-16T16:44:00.000-04:00

but

I did promise you my brother-in-law's recipe for homemade Sangria, which is the best Sangria I've ever had!

So, here it is...

Scotty's Fruity Sangria

INGREDIENTS
1 magnum (1.5 litres) Sangiovese (or other fruity red)--Scott got about 3/4 of the bottle into the pitcher.

1/2-3/4 cup Grand Marnier--a little extra if you don't have to drive.
2 cups cut-up fruit--lots of fresh pineapple, blueberries, raspberries, white peaches, kiwi, etc.
1/3 cup simple syrup*
1/2 cup good quality orange juice
1/2 can ginger ale
2 cinnamon sticks--Scott calls this the magic ingredient.

Mix all together in a pretty pitcher. Let set for 24 hours minimum. Enjoy!

*Recipe for Simple Syrup
1 cup white sugar
1 cup water

mix together in a medium saucepan. Bring to boil and stir until all sugar is dissolved. Let cool before using in any recipe.

In Scott's Garden

2011-06-11T08:09:00.012-04:00

Would you have this guy cook your dinner?

The correct answer is, yes, you would!

I have five brothers-in-law (not a couple, a few, like most people--5!). And the curious thing is that despite their disparate professions (lawyer, carpenter, business execs., etc.) and back grounds (only one of them is Italian)) each one has, in various ways, a huge attachment to food.

There's Vinny, my oldest brother-in-law, who has worked in the food industry--I'm talking Food Industry with capital letters; think General Foods--and who is now the financial voice of Stew Leonard's. There's Tom the carpenter who is border-line macrobiotic and a student of good whole-wheat bread and strong coffee. There's David who owns a bustling lobster restaurant in Maine; Sean who shops the fish piers and bakeries of Boston in search of good seafood and pastries for his family and friends;

and then there's Scott (see picture above)--passionate gardener, generous friend, and crazy-good cook. I've had so many of "the best I've ever had" type of meals at his house that I'm a little daunted when it comes to reciprocating.

Take last night, for instance--an ordinary Friday night; a little cool, gentle breeze, lots of mosquitoes--typical. But at Scott's, a simple cook-out turned into an event.

It started with a tour of his beloved, newly-planted garden. With the kids gone, the need for an outdoor play space became unnecessary, so Scott transformed almost every square inch of his backyard into an edible landscape--flowers, vegetables, herbs.

Lovely white sage in Scott's garden

The garden tour was accompanied by generous pours of Scott's own Sangria, complex and full of pineapple and peach and Grand Marnier--the best sangria I've ever had (you see what I mean by "the best ever" thing...). As soon as I can get Scott to sit down long enough to dictate the recipe for this delicious brew I'll post it here.

Scott served us zucchini appetizers--succulent discs of breaded zucchini, deep-fried in olive oil--which we munched on as we made our way through the labyrinth of herbs and rock sculptures and green growing things.

He is the man when it comes to the grill. And he has a way with salmon. That night it was wild-caught and marinated. He uses a different marinade each time so it's hard to say what was in it, but for sure the fish itself was the star of the dish.

It was a wonderful, convivial repast. You could tell even Grammy enjoyed herself since she wouldn't give-up her glass of Greco di Tufo (even though she thought it was pinot grigio).

With grilled veggies, risotto which Scott's wife, Catherine made, and ice cream for dessert--Scott topped each ice cream serving with a sprig of mint he picked from the garden (where did she get this guy)--it was a Friday night meal for the memory book.

Ah family, you know--there's nothing quite like it.

Back with the Sangria recipe soon!

The Merry Month of May?

2011-06-02T09:10:00.000-04:00

news.bigdownload.com

Whatever happened to May? I’m flipping pages of the calendars at my house so fast it feels like a bad movie.

And June already here, so bitter sweet, so many good-byes, it breaks my heart even still.

So, (until I can slow things down a bit) I offer you this recipe gem, one that is always delicious, as long as you use good ingredients.  The recipe uses fresh arugula, my favorite green.

Since May, I've been buying my arugula at a little farm in Boxborough called, Burrough’s Farm. It is on land owned by Bryon Clemence, and it's truly one of those you can't there from here kind of places.

Bryon (spelled with a "yo" not an "ia") is as characteristic a New England farmer as they come--of indeterminant age, wiry, laconic as hell, with an enigmatic slightly condescending smile.

He brings his organic produce to the farmers market up the street from my house, but he also sells it out a dark shed on his website-lacking farm. Just try to find it--I dare you.

The recipe comes from Patricia Wells, my first love (of food writers, that is). I bought one of her cookbooks in 1993 when it first came out and have been cooking from it ever since. It's called Patricia Well's Trattoria, and it contains recipes from lovable trattorias she visited in Italy.

Wells is alive and, well, well--and still living in Paris, and still cooking and writing, I'm happy to report.

Here is a slightly adapted version of her
Pasta with Arugula, Tomatoes, and Shaved Parmigiana

1 2oz. chunk of Italian Parmigiano Reggiano (look for a piece that is a mellow yellow and with not too much thickness of rind).
4 cups (more if you love arugula) stemmed arugula leaves, washed, dried and coarsely chopped or torn (use the freshest leaves you can find. Buy arugula at a farmstand or farmers market in season. Wash in several changes of water until all the grit is gone).
1/4 cup evoo (check the harvest date on the olive oil bottle--you don't want oil that is older than a year if possible. Store it out of the light and in a cool place--not the top of the stove, which looks great but is bad for the oil).
4 ripe plum tomatoes (use tomatoes in season if possible, but whole, canned San Marzano's are OK.  If tomatoes are out of season and you don't like to use canned, leave them out).
3 tbls. coarse sea salt
1 lb fresh pasta: tonnarelli (looks like square spaghetti), fettucine, tagliatelle, something with some surface area to grab the arugula.  Ordinary spaghetti is too round and slippery.
Fine sea salt and freshly ground black pepper.

Bring water in your pasta pot (about 6 qts.) to a rolling boil, and as the water is heating up place a large serving bowl over the pot so the bowl heats up too.
Meanwhile, using a vegetable peeler, shave the chunk of parmigiana into long thick strips and deposit 1/2 of it into the bowl on top of the pasta pot.
Add the arugula, the tomatoes, and the oil and toss it all together.
Remove the bowl and add the coarse salt to the pasta water (if you haven't already) and cook the fresh pasta for a few minutes, until tender, then drain.
Add the drained pasta to the big bowl, toss, and season well with the fine sea salt and pepper.
Divide up the pasta and top each serving with the remaining 1/2 of the parmigiana.
Serve immediately with extra black pepper.

It's a wonderful spring pasta dish--even if it is June.

rebekahradice.com

Coasting Uphill

2011-04-16T09:15:00.004-04:00

This is a picture of the rugged, dry mountains surrounding part of southern Arizona, the location of our excellent bicycling adventure with Sojourn Adventures.

On the day before our trip, my camera quit on me. I could no longer hold shut the door of the battery compartment with my thumb while pressing the shutter with the pointer finger of my opposite hand--without a lot of shaking.

It was time for a new camera but who had time.

So, on the way to the airport I bought a disposable 35 mm--not the greenest thing I've ever done, but it was better than no camera at all.

Fortunately, on the trip I met Sara Ringler, an artist, who takes excellent photos. Most of these are from her Picassa album.

Thank you, Sara!

For six days of perfect weather (80 degrees, sunny, dry), in March, we biked through the dramatic countryside of southern Arizona, near Tuscon and the scary Mexican border.

The Saguaro cactus can take up to seventy-five years to grow an arm (!), and can live up to one-hundred-fifty-years. We biked right passed thousands of them in the Sonoran Desert. Above is fellow bike rider, Bea, e molto simpatica, who looks like she's stuck to that cactus.

Our bicycling group of 18 stayed at a beautiful hacienda outside of Tuscon. There we were wined and dined, and margarita'd for two nights. As a mater of fact on that first night several in our group came down with a stomach bug, including me.

But our fearless leader, Susan Rand, kept us in top form with her healthy lunches and high-energy snacks throughout the trip.

Of the six nights, my favorite place to stay was Rancho de La Osa,

a beautiful outpost in the shadow of the 670-mile-long "fence."

Located in the high Sonoran Desert southwest of Tucson at the base of the sacred Baboquivari mountains

and bordering the Tohono O'odham Indian Nation, the 300 year old property is "one of the last great haciendas in America."

Some in our party actually hiked to "The Fence" , as it's referred to in these parts, and were warned away by the ubiquitous border patrol.

Rancho de la Osa is a quiet retreat with a spiritual feel. It's original architecture and award-winning food has been written up in travel magazines. It's been used as the setting for a few movies, and is often visited by Hollywood types. You really should go.

As one of Sojourn's planned activites, we all went horseback riding in the desert. It took a while to get us all dressed properly and saddled-up, but we did get to see the desert "up close and personal."

But for me, the highlight of the trip was the bicycling.

There were days, with the wind at our backs and nothing but the clear blue sky up ahead, that if felt like coasting up hill.

Let's Get Vertical

2011-04-01T21:08:00.015-04:00

Day four of spring and it's snowing like crazy outside. Perfect night for a vertical scotch tasting.

And wouldn't you know, there was one scheduled that very night at Nancy's Airfield Cafe (NAC).

If you live within fifty miles of Stow, Massachusetts and you haven't been to Nancy's, you've got to go. You'll feel you discovered it yourself--it's that kind of place.

It's a study in contrasts: a neighborhood bistro without a neighborhood; a locavore's top-pick without the hype; and an ordinary-looking building in an extraordinary setting.

Getting there is half the fun.

And it's the perfect bicycling destination (Sunday brunch anyone?).

To get to the cafe, you drive over hill and dale and then down a long deserted road ending in a parking lot. And there it is--quiet and isolated from any hint of suburban sprawl, in a private airfield of all things.

Behind the restaurant is the airfield, spread out against a backdrop of trees and hills and sky, and nothing else but the wild blue yonder. It's lovely.

The vibe inside the restaurant is casual and friendly, and sometimes downright homey. But I've been there, too, when it feels formal depending on who greets you at the door.

The decor is part 1960s lunch-counter (a hold-out from former iterations of the restaurant), with Formica and other artificial-looking things (I’m not sure if there actually are plastic grapes and flowers but it gives that impression); and part cozy kitchen. There's something curious over the windows, a kind of valence that looks like roofing shingles. Maybe you can see what I mean from this picture.

Then there's this crazy beautiful mural over the bar (see it above Nancy's head in the photo?), which isn't really a bar but a counter with a few stools where Nancy's friends can hang-out and talk to her while she's cooking.

The lighting is very nice and soft, and during the day natural light streams in from all the windows.

Right outside the restaurant's windows you can watch small planes come and go. Sometimes you see the airplane owners loading-up their families and their suit cases for a weekend jaunt over to Martha's Vineyard or Cape Cod. Or you might see them shoveling-out their planes after one of this winters many snowstorms, or watch the field manager tool around on a Segway, checking on things out on the airfield. Sometimes an ultralight buzzes by with its giant lawn-mower-in-the-sky sound; or a helicopter-in-training lands; or a hot air balloon floats by. All of it makes for interesting, unusual and not un-pleasant viewing for the NAC diner.

Owner and chef, Nancy McPherson, is gregarious, fun, and loves to cook. You can tell she cares about the food she serves and wants us all to love it--which we do!

The vertical scotch tasting began with a power point presentation by Joe Rappa and Scott Lewis from Wiliam Grant & Sons Private Distillery . Joe and Scott walked us through the tasting of 6 single malts, in ascending years, three Glenfiddichs and three Balvenies.

But after the first fifteen-year-old Glenfiddich, which I thought harsh, the others were all good. Did you know that the color and a lot of the flavor of single-malts derives from the type of cask it was finished or aged in--sherry, bourbon or port? Neither did I.

Nancy had prepared a menu to complement the different single-malts, not that I would ever drink single-malt with dinner but the pairing was spot on. She managed to sneak in some scotch into everything she made for that dinner.

Flight #1, the three Glenfiddichs, was paired with a plate of honey and scotch-glazed brie, and fennel seed crusted Atlantic salmon with orange jus. The fifteen-yr. old, the eighteen yr.-old, and the twenty-one-yr. old all went down easily.

Flight #2 was sipped with venison stew with toasted barley. The deer had been shot right outside the restaurant (deer have been menacing the café’s garden) rendering a hyper-local edge to this course. There was also a nice chunk of duck breast on a skewer with a tangerine-caramel drizzle. Yum.

Dessert (yes, there was dessert!) was scotch-infused vanilla ice cream with a chocolate glaze that must have had some scotch in it, too, but by then it didn’t matter.

Cigars were enjoyed outside.

I think there will be more events like this at Nancy’s. Hope to see you at one.

No Biggy

2011-03-28T08:11:00.001-04:00

news.bbc.co.uk

Don't you hate that expression--"no biggy?"

There are others I hate too but, "It's no biggy," is the one that really makes me cringe. So I'm proposing to eliminate that expression from the English language and replacing it with,

"It's not like demoting Pluto or anything," my new favorite expression.

Maybe I listen to NPR too much but I think that soon we’ll start seeing and hearing that phrase a lot. Think of it like, “It’s not rocket science,” or “it’s not brain surgery.”

Poor Pluto—what it took to demote that “planet” to dwarf status is the stuff of science fiction novels.

I’ll be on the look-out for anyone using my new phrase and report back with some good examples, I hope.

You do know what I mean don't you--about demoting Pluto? If not don't worry, it's no biggy.

A Fish Story

2011-03-20T14:00:00.001-04:00

I rarely order lobster in a restaurant.

Occasionally I may have a lobster roll, especially if I’m in Maine at The Portland Lobster Co., which is owned by my sister Debra and her husband David. There’s nothing better on a summer’s evening than to sit outside on the restaurant’s deck overlooking the harbor, adrift in a sweet amnesia that denies there ever was or ever will be winter.

I remember being five or six in my Dad’s fish market, in Lawrence, MA. The store was a narrow space on a busy main street. All kinds of fish and eels and strange things were displayed in a glass case that ran along the right hand side of the aisle. Toward the back, another short piece of counter made a right angle to the main counter and held the cash register. Behind that was a kitchen, I think. Sawdust covered the black and white tiles on the floor.

My dad would have been twenty-five, a total grown-up in my eyes. I have a very brief memory, too, of being chosen to ride with him once on one of his regular runs into Boston to buy fish at the piers--him with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and me hanging out the window of the pick-up, feeling very special.

We were a good, Catholic, growing family. Friday night meant lobster around our house. This was back in the day when eating meat on a Friday was a mortal sin. Every Friday my dad brought home whatever lobsters didn’t sell at the fish market. At that point in time, there were four kids, and, as far as I can remember, mom was always pregnant. (My brother, the youngest in our eventual family of 7, was born when I was eighteen).

Dad had thick, black, slicked-back, hair and wore a white, wife-beater t-shirt. Mom usually wore a “housecoat,” which to this day she prefers over wearing an apron. (I’ve been meaning to research her claim that new housecoats are hard to find these days).

Most of the time she seemed angry.

On Friday nights she would stand at the sink for a long time with her back to us, cracking lobsters, and picking out the meat. Dad would be in the family room, watching TV, and having a beer. She stood there cracking and picking, cracking and picking, while we silently waited, half wondering if she were mad at us, at my dad, or at having to crack the lobsters.

Finally she would turn around, call my Dad to the table and present us with a jumbo-sized, mixing-bowl filled with pink and white, steaming chunks of lobster meat, and another bowl of melted butter.

Dinner.

We reached across each other and using our hands picked out just the pieces we wanted and dragged them through the communal butter bowl and slurped it all down.

And for a while then I felt all was right, all was forgiven. Mom loved lobster, too.

Duck, Duck, Goose...

2011-03-08T10:30:00.001-05:00

Or, more precisely:

Snow Goose, Dove, Venison and Pheasant

It’s what was for dinner Saturday night at our sometimes annual “Game Dinner,” a sharing of game shot by my husband Jerry and our hunter friends.

At these dinners, the non-hunting partner of each couple (in all cases, wives) is invited.

About ten years ago my husband first took up shooting, which led to training a succession of sporting dogs, which led to bird hunting, which led to "now what do we do with these dead animals." Thanks to this activity, I have a bulging file of game recipes collected during this time.

First couple of dogs we had for hunting purposes were Flat-Coated Retrievers—handsome, friendly, loyal, obsequious.

Now we have Rita, our Wire-Haired Pointing Griffon, with emphasis on the fon.

Rita is smart, chill, and perfectly happy to parallel play (btw, the Griffon just took 3rd place in the Westminster Dog Show competition in the Sporting Dog category). She's great at upland bird hunting and retrieving. I've actually watched as she was put through her paces at her "training camp" (don't ask).

But let me describe what we ate at this year’s Game Dinner, which I thought was something to write home about.

We were at John’s house, our friend and neighbor.

We started with Snow Goose, baked with an orange glaze, just the breasts actually.

Jerry shot this beautiful animal in Delaware last week (can you tell I'm a little ambivalent about this whole enterprise). It was pretty good, but "gamey," definitely gamey.

The goose was followed by dove breasts, and again one eats only the breasts--

two delicious tender morsels per person, which we picked-up with our fingers to nibble on their tiny breastbones.

Our main course was, deer--I mean venison roast,

a noble slab of medium rare, dark flesh, tender as a filet mignon, lean as a long-distance runner which it probably was, and very good. John, took it down earlier this year in the woods in New Hampshire.

John is an excellent cook and to accompany the venison he made risotto, and added pheasant, which he bought at Savenor's (he has killed pheasant many times--he just didn't have any left and he wanted to stick with the theme).

I made salad.

I wish I could write that “no animals were harmed in the crafting of this post,”

but I can’t.

Shameless Self Promotion

2011-02-15T08:15:00.005-05:00

Photographer Michael Piazza does such a great job with portraiture, doesn't he?

Here on the cover of Edible Boston's current issue, Winter 2011, is a portrait of some of the chefs I interviewed for my feature article, Future Chefs: Getting Comfortable Being Uncomfortable.

It's a story about how some under-privileged kids in inner city schools in Boston get a leg-up in life with the help of an inspiring woman named Toni Elka. It was great to get to know Toni a little through her organization, Future Chefs.

I think we'll be seeing great things from her in the, well, future!

Enjoy the article.

http://www.ediblecommunities.com/boston/winter-2011/future-chefs.htm

P.S. My next article for Edible is about another inspiring woman who is transforming the way Boston discards its food waste! Stay tuned...

3 Recipes To Get You Through Hibernation

2011-02-14T07:00:00.001-05:00

I had thought that after the holidays I would welcome the respite from overeating and the absence of cakes, cookies and rich foods, but it seems I only got started.

Instead, feeling swallowed-up by mid-winter, I’ve been cooking up a storm (and eating like a bear). I’m starting to look like the Pillsbury dough boy, and I know the time will come (soon I hope) when I can no longer sustain this eating and cooking momentum--I do tend to eat everything I cook.

I have a few favorite TV cooking shows.

I like to see what Giada’s up to, and I occasionally drop in on Nigella, Ina and Lydia (these all end in “A”—I wonder what that says about me).

Nigella’s Chocolate Pear Pudding looked easy to make and perfect for dessert when you’re in denial about calories: "hey, it’s fruit."

Giada’s Apricot Almond Cookie recipe combined fruit and nuts, which would at least be healthy.

And the Rustic French Meatloaf…well, let’s just say you need a little extra to get you through hibernation, which puts me in the mood for those earthy, rich flavors.

Here, then, are all three recipes, and if I were you I wouldn’t eat them all at once.

French Meat Loaf
(from an old Gourmet magazine)
For 1 8.5" x 4.5" glass loaf pan, 4-5 servings

This is an excellent, rich, meaty meatloaf, and quite sophisticated. It combines some of my favorite ingredients: dried fruit and nuts. I've become a fan of pistachios which I once viewed as nothing more than something to fill old ladies' candy dishes. In this recipe I couldn't find shelled unsalted pistachios, so I used shelled salted ones and shook them in a sieve to eliminate some of the salt. Make sure the prunes are very fresh and leave them in small chunks. You might consider substituting plump raisins for the prunes. The loaf is a little crumbly to cut, especially when your knife hits a pistachio, but never fear--this is delicious.

INGREDIENTS
1 cup fine fresh bread crumbs
1/2 cup whole milk
3/4 cup finely chopped onion
3 large garlic cloves, minced
1 TBSP extra virgin olive oil
1/2 lb chicken livers, separated into lobes, trimmed and rinsed (you might have to look around for them in the chicken section of the grocery store--or ask the butcher, if there is one on site)
3/4 lb. ground pork
3/4 lb. ground veal
1/4 cup chopped pitted prunes
1/4 cup shelled unsalted pistachios
2 tsp. dried thyme leaves
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
1/3 cup chopped flat-leaf parsley

* Preheat oven to 475 F with rack in middle.
* Soak bread crumbs in milk in a small bowl
* Cook onion, garlic, and 1/4 tsp. each of salt and pepper in oil in a small skillet over med. heat, stirring occasionally, until onion is softened, about 5 minutes.
* Puree livers in a blender, then transfer to large bow. Add pork, veal, prunes, pistachios, thyme, eggs, bread crumb mixture, onion mixture, 1/2 tsp of salt, and 1/4 tsp. pepper and gently mix with your hands until just combined.
* Transfer meatloaf mixture to the loaf pan and bake, covered with foil, until an instant-read thermometer inserted into center registers 165 degrees, about 50 minutes or more. Let rest 5 minutes. Cover top of meatloaf with parsley before serving.

Serve with Dijon mustard.

___________________________________________________________________________________

Chocolate Pear Pudding Cake

I love watching Nigella cook, and eat. She LOOKS like a cook, if you know what I mean--not like the perfect-figured Giada who I swear must eat with a toothpick for a utensil. This recipe is chocolate-satisfying and extremely easy. It uses canned pears, something I haven't eaten since I lived at home in the 50s! What goes around comes around, I guess.

INGREDIENTS
1 & 1/4 sticks unsalted butter, softened, plus more for greasing
2 (14 ounce) cans pear halves. If you want a less sweet dessert use pear halves in "lite" syrup or fruit juice, or for sweeter, use pear halves in syrup. Or try the same with apricots (come to think of it, with any canned fruit!)
3/4 cup plus 1 TBSP. all-purpose flour
1/4 cup good cocoa powder
1 & 1/4 cups sugar
1 tsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. baking soda
2 eggs
2 tsp. good vanilla extract

* Preheat oven to 400 F. and butter an 8.5" square ovenproof dish.
* Drain the pears and arrange them on the base of the prepared dish, rumps up.
* Put all the other ingredients in a food processor and buzz until batter is of a soft dropping consistency.
* Spread the brown batter over the pears, and bake in oven for 30 minutes.
* Let stand for 5 or 10 minutes.
* Serve with a good quality chocolate sauce if you want extra chocolaty-ness. It's fine without, too.

__________________________________________________________________________________

Apricot & Nut Cookies w Amaretto Icing
Makes about 2 dozen cookies

Last but not least is Giada's Apricot & Nut Cookies. Giada glazes them Amaretto icing, but I think the Amaretto overwhelms the delicate flavors in the cookies, apricot, almond and pine nut. I would use a plain icing, maybe with just a little vanilla for flavoring. The kids might like them better too without the alcohol kick. These cookies keep well, as I discovered when I sent a batch to my daughter in NYC whose mailbox wouldn't accommodate the package. She picked them up days later at the post office and declared them delicious!

INGREDIENTS
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temp.
1/2 cup plus 2 TBSP sugar
1 tsp. good quality vanilla extract
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
1/4 tsp. fine sea salt
1 large egg
1 & 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup dried apricots, coarsely chopped
1/4 cup slivered almonds, toasted (on a pan in a 400 degree oven. Watch them--they only take a few minutes to turn golden and them burn!)
2 TBSP pine nuts, toasted (ditto for the pine nuts, or you could probably eliminate these altogether--I found they did not add much flavor).

* In a large bowl, beat the butter, sugar, vanilla, cinnamon, and salt with an electric mixer until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes.
* Beat in the egg.
* Stir in the flour until just blended.
* Mix in the apricots, almonds, and pine nuts.
* Transfer the dough to a sheet of plastic wrap and shape into a log, about 12 inches long and about 1 & 1/2 inches in diameter. Wrap the dough in the plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 2 hours.
* Preheat the oven to 350 F.
* Line 2 heavy baking sheets with parchment paper.
* Cut the dough log crosswise into 1/4 to 1/2 inch thick slices. Transfer to baking sheets. Space evenly apart.
* Bake until the cookies are golden around the edges, about 15 minutes.
* Transfer cookies to wire rack to cool completely before icing.

For the Icing
Place 1 & 3/4 cups confectioner's sugar in a medium bowl. Gradually whisk in 5-7 TBSP almond liqueur (or water with a few drops of vanilla) until the mixture is of drizzling consistency.
Drizzle the cookies with the icing and allow to set for about 30 minutes before serving.

Channeling Mollie Katzen

2011-02-11T12:55:00.015-05:00

Remember Moosewood?

The only cookbook I’ve used for as long as I've used my 1975 copy of Joy of Cooking, is The Moosewood Cookbook, circa 1977. In case you’re not familiar with the cookbook, it’s the artist-illustrated, not-quite-100%- vegetarian cookbook based on recipes from the eponymous restaurant in Ithaca, NY.

Started in 1972 as a collective, Moosewood Restaurant, and later the cookbook, became a popular brand of eating, defined by healthy and conscious. This was way before there was Whole Foods.

The cookbook is written by Mollie Katzen, one of the original founders of the restaurant. The collective has gone on to publish many other cookbooks,

and Mollie has gone on to write scores of books about cooking.

Like millions, I came of age in the kitchen with Mollie and The Moosewood Cookbook. I loved the pictures she drew to accompany the recipes, and I loved all the cheese--there is cheese in everything. I still consult it now and then when I can't remember the sequence of steps in making lasagna.

Mollie is listed by the New York Times as one of the best-selling cookbook authors of all time, with over 5 million books in print! She is attributed with changing the way we eat. Her citation in Wikipedia states that she is “largely credited with moving healthful gourmet food from the fringe to the center of American dinner plates…”

Wow.

That’s huge.

I had no idea she was that good. (She’s also a consultant to Harvard University dining, and the architect of Harvard’s Food Literacy Initiative, and holds a charter seat at the Harvard School of Public Health Nutrition Roundtable--all of which makes me feel really bad about what I've been doing all these years).

I’ve heard (although I can find no substantiation of it) that Mollie, and not the collective, gets all the credit for “changing the way we eat.” Needless to say, she and the collective parted ways some time back.

The point of all this is to tell you that last week I went there--to The Moosewood Restaurant in Ithaca, New York.

As many times as I've pulled out that cookbook and prepared it's recipes I had never been to the legendary restaurant, this restaurant that launched a movement, mainly because you kind of need a reason to travel to Ithaca, like maybe you're a student at Cornell or at Ithaca College, or you have a child who is.

I had neither excuse.

But I do have a daughter who was in a production of "Dear Friend Amelia" at The Kitchen Theatre,

and for that we journeyed to this outpost.

I was a little disappointed in Moosewood, the restaurant. Maybe after all these years the legend had been built up to an unsustainable level.

It was pleasant enough. It was 5:30 on a Saturday afternoon in February. Outside the snow was falling softly. The interior of the restaurant was warm and sparkling with fairy lights.

But I wanted it to be a little edgier. In 1973 it was edgy. For 2011 it seemed ordinary.

I really can't remember what we had to eat. It was good, don't get me wrong. And it was healthy, for sure.

But I missed Mollie. I realized I was looking for 1977 Mollie Katzen in 21st- century Moosewood; for some remnant of the spirit of that funny, iconoclast of the first cookbook. It was nowhere to be found in the restaurant.

Oh well, a minor disappointment really, in the scheme of things.

After almost 40 years in business, the restaurant must be doing something right.

What's In a Name

2010-12-19T12:08:00.005-05:00

It’s difficult to speak of “Eataly.”

If you say to someone, even a New Yorker, “Have you been to Eataly?” or “I had lunch in Eataly,” you’re usually met with a blank stare for a second or 2, before: “Oh! You mean Mario Batali’s new place…” And then of course that person has in fact been to Eataly.

I have a sneaking suspicion that that’s intentional, that momentary confusion, when the speaker has to repeat the word, maybe spell it, and the spoken-to has to concentrate really hard.

It’s brilliant marketing.

If word-of-mouth helps to spread the news of Batali’s Italian emporium on 5th Avenue, modeled after the original in Turin (also named Eataly, probably betting that English-speaking tourists would be it’s biggest audience), having to utter the name once, twice maybe thrice would extract maximum benefit from the ploy. If mere mortals were to use the strategy and give their new enterprise a hard-to-pronounce title, in today’s economy, it would be a bad move, maybe even damage business. But with Mario, I don’t know, does anything Mario creates fail?

So anyway, I had lunch at Eataly. Here’s a picture of the bill.

Lunch was Baked flounder over fregola sarda—delicious. Fregola Sarda is pasta from Sardinia that is toasted after it's dried. It has a nutty flavor and is similar to another pasta, Israeli couscous. It can be used in risottos, soups, and as an accompaniment to many main courses.

photo from IslandVittles.com

The Ligurian Fritto Misto was just so-so; not as crispy as it should have been, but fresh--I enjoyed it. The refreshing glass of Muller Thurgau I had with it was perfect. Muller Thurgau is a white wine grape, originating in Switzerland and widely planted in Germany, and to a lesser degree, in Italy. It's one of my favorite whites.

As the ad goes...
Lunch for two in NYC: $100.
Wear and tear on my joints getting there: three months closer to total knee-replacement.
Spending time with daughter Elly in “Eataly:” priceless.

My Kind of Cooking

2010-12-04T10:41:00.005-05:00

This is one of those recipes where the whole is better than the parts.

It uses a few simple ingredients, that on their own are wonderful, but in combination and transformed by heat, are sublime. It doesn’t look like much but man is it good—the taste is familiar and exotic at the same time.

I’m a big fan of cooked fruit, especially with salt, pepper and olive oil (see my recipe for Orange Salad with evoo). I found this recipe while reading the Wall Street Journal, that Republican rag that I’ve come to respect for its clear writing and surprisingly excellent coverage of food and recipes. The recipe is from the chef and owner of the popular Los Angeles restaurant, AOC (the designation on French wine labels). Suzanne Goin is crazy creative with food and must have a palate similar to mine because I tend to like most of what she likes to prepare.

Her idea was to roast grapes. It sounded heavenly. Since I’ve been known to roast olives—I find it deepens their flavor—I thought it just might do the same for grapes. It did. The grapes came out of the oven with their juices just starting to ooze, anointing the roasting pan with a delicious syrup you will want to lap up. The grapes had deepened in color, blistered a little and become musky-sweet. The olive oil and salt and pepper perfectly balanced the sweetness. This would make an excellent dessert with cheese or an accompaniment to wild game. And it couldn’t be easier.

Roasted Grapes

Pre-heat the oven to 425.
Take a small cluster of red, seedless grapes and gently toss it in a bowl with 1 tsp. of extra virgin olive oil, sea salt and freshly ground black pepper.
Place cluster on a baking sheet and roast for 8-10 minutes. The grapes will puff-up, darken in spots, and begin to blister.
Enjoy them while they're still warm--mmmmmmm!

So, What's Your Excuse?

2010-11-01T08:00:00.003-04:00

Some days it’s just too hard being a writer.

Like the other day. I sequestered myself in my apartment in Charlestown so I could finish writing an article due that day!! It’s quiet there; there’s no phone or email to distract me from writing. I don’t know anyone there, so no one would tap at the door or ask me to take a walk or want to chat. It would be just me, my quiet dog, Rita, and the big window that looks out over the harbor. Boats come and go; people hustle off to work; I’m totally anonymous and secluded. The clocks don’t even work here.

But there’s always an excuse for not getting down to writing, right? What would keep me from it today, the perfectly-designed, no-distractions, up-against-the-deadline day?

The USS Constitution.

Yes, you read that right—The USS Constitution, Old freaking Ironsides, the boat you visited in 4th grade—that USS Constitution! Today was the day they decided it was time to TURN the damn thing. So as my fingers squared-up with the q-w-e-r-t-y, about to start writing, a dozen tug boats infiltrate the peaceful scene outside my window. They begin hauling on ropes attached to Old Ironsides! They pull the thing, over a period of about 2 hours, out of its berth in the nearby Navy Yard, where she has lived quietly during the whole time I’ve been coming to Charlestown, parade it along in front of my window out to where it will have enough elbow room to maneuver--then begin firing off its 200 year old cannons! Ba-boom! Ba-boom! The noise ricocheted off the steel reinforced walls in the apartment and smoke filled the air outside. Tourists and office workers spilled out onto the pier to see what I assume is a once in a lifetime spectacle!? I did, too. There were Homeland Security boats with blue lights flashing, green Environmental Police boats circling the vessel, a dramatic entourage escorting Old Ironsides. Yup, "there she blows--Old Ironsides rises again. The old girl, she’s still got it." I can just see the headlines. Crap!

And then of course there’s the whole drama of tugging it back into its berth for another hundred years.

The whole thing took most of the day. The article I’m working on is nowhere.

Next time, I’ll close the curtains.

Bicycle Pump(kin)

2010-10-29T12:00:00.001-04:00

I get my best ideas while riding my bike--alone.

I think the extra oxygen to the brain wakes it up--as if all that huffing and gasping for air on the hills ignites some dormant neurons and suddenly puts them to work.

On this particular day, as I was biking along, lost in reverie, a spandex-ed thing buzzed by without any warning sounds--like, "ahem," or the polite and useful, "on your left," or even, "ring, ring," like the old bicycle bells. Nothing. Scared the beejeezus out of me. I hate it when that happens (which is the subject of another blog entirely; one about how rude bicyclists are, even to each other).

But anyway, after I overcame my little fit, I went back to my reverie and decided with this post I would turn over a new leaf and give back to my readers, to you who have been so generous with your comments and good wishes.

In the past I rarely responded, which I think is bad manners. Therefore, with each upcoming post, I will try to address the ideas, questions and suggestions I've received from you over the past 3 years of this blog. And I promise to keep life in perspective--no more bitching and moaning about having to process peaches. If you read my post "The Seconds," and a few posts after that, too, you'll hear me complaining about having to process ugly peaches on my own without any help from my husband. So many of you wrote reprimanding me, writing that while I may complain about how much work it is to pick peaches, some, millions, have no food at all! Point taken. Thank you. I am humbled by your concern and you may consider me never to appear ungrateful again.

It was a vivid pastoral, pictured at top, that I passed on my last bicycling adventure (the photo does not do it justice). The orange was startling. The scene was almost hokey--what the world must think of when they think of New England in the fall. The last few days here in Massachusetts have been gloriously warm, sunny, and with that crystalline light that only comes in the fall. It's sad that it has to end.

But to capture the season's essence, I suggest you make something pumpkin. I had delicious and rich Pumpkin Whoopie Pies at a book signing recently. They were made by Babycakes, a new, local bakery. And I've had pumpkin pies of every richness and consistency. But when I want I experience all my favorite fall flavors I make pumpkin squares, from a recipe in an old Gourmet Magazine. And you don't need to lug home a pumpkin to do it. Enjoy!

Date Pecan Pumpkin Squares

Ingredients
2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 tsp. baking powder
3/4 tsp. cinnamon
1/2 tsp. freshly grated nutmeg
1/2 tsp. ground cloves
1/2 tsp. salt
2 sticks (1 cup) plus 2 tbsp. unsalted butter, softened
A little less than 2 cups firmly packed light brown sugar
2 large eggs, room temp.
1 cup solid-pack canned pumpkin
1 tsp. vanilla
1 lb pitted dried dates, cut into thirds (about 2 cups)
1 1/2 cups chopped pecans (leave them kind of chunky)
Optional accompaniments are nutmeg ice cream and bourbon burnt sugar sauce, but I never bother--the squares are yummy as is!

Into a bowl sift together the flour, the baking powder, the cinnamon, the nutmeg, the cloves, and the salt. In another bowl with an electric mix cream the butter and the sugar; add the eggs, 1 at a time, beating, and beat in the pumpkin, the vanilla, and 1/4 cup water. In a small bowl toss the dates with 1/4 cup of the flour mixture until they are coated well. Gradually add the remaining flour mixture and the pecans, stirring until the batter is combined well. Pour the batter into a greased baking pan, 13 x 9 x 2", and bake the cake in the middle of a pre-heated 350 degrees oven for 1 hour or more, or until a tester comes out clean. Let the cake cool on a rack, cut it into 12 squares, and serve it plain or with the accompaniments.

"Piece a Cake" Chocolate Cake

2010-09-22T08:07:00.001-04:00

I was an ardent friend and follower of Gourmet magazine in the 1990's.

It was a time when I did the most cooking. I have bundles of yellowing pages I tore from every issue through that decade. Most of the recipes are stained and ripped and delicate as my mother's skin, but still readable.

I almost took it personally when my favorite food writer at Gourmet, Laurie Colwin, died in 1992. I remember looking for but not seeing her column in the magazine for a while, and then reading a brief editorial statement at the bottom of one of her columns. The statement was terse; as if the editors were too grief-stricken to say much but were duty-bound to explain to her adoring public why the lapse. The statement read, "This column is one of a series of articles that Laurie Colwin wrote for us before her untimely death in October, 1992." That was how I found out she had died. I felt a little cheated, but I tore out the article and saved it.

I'm not sure where I'm going with that except that my older daughter, Anna, who lives in DC, asked me for a chocolate cake recipe.

I spent some time this morning looking through my old manila folder for Laurie Colwin's chocolate cake recipes so Anna could make one for her new boy-friend (or should I say, "man-friend?" He's 32 for heaven's sake; I'm not sure what to call him).

In any case, I found the recipe. It was part of an article highlighting three chocolate cakes, Gourmet/May 1993, and it begins,

"Anyone who spends any time in the kitchen eventually comes to realize that what she or he is looking for is the perfect chocolate cake." That's why I loved reading her--that she would write/admit that, and in Gourmet magazine no less!

I've tried all three recipes from that article, multiple times. One Christmas I made all three for dessert for our huge family's gathering.

But the one I liked the best, the one that's the easiest, and the one I'm sending to Anna, is called Karen Edward's Version of Buttermilk Cocoa Cake A little anecdote, so typical of Laurie's writing, prededes the recipe.

"One afternoon when our daughters were on an outing with their fathers, my friend Karen Edwards, a former sous-chef at the old Tenth Avenue Bar in New York City, and I were sitting around in terrible moods caused by exhaustion and low blood sugar. Then she presented me with a slice of a delicious chocolate cake."

So here it is.

Karen Edward's Version of Buttermilk Cocoa Cake
1. Preheat the oven to 350 F. and butter and flour a 9 x 2 inch round cake pan. (I used a fluted one with a removable bottom).

2. Mix together 1 & 3/4 cups flour, 3/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder, 1 cup sugar, 1 teaspoon baking soda, and 1/4 teaspoon salt.

3. To these ingredients add 1 cup buttermilk, 1/2 cup vegetable oil or melted butter, and 2 teaspoons vanilla. Mix.

4. Turn batter into the pan, bake the cake in the middle of the oven for 30 minutes, or until a tester comes our clean, and let it cool for 5 minutes before turning it out of the pan.

Laurie said it tastes even better after a few days. She's absolutely right, if you can keep it around that long. She also wrote, "...whoever thought the recipe up ought to get the Nobel Prize." Don't you just love that?

Enjoy!

Marital Aid

2010-09-20T08:17:00.002-04:00

My favorite holiday is Kol Nidre, but not for the usual reasons.

On Kol Nidre, my husband fasts. That means that from sundown on one night until sundown the following day he doesn't eat a thing, or even drink. Even water.

"Not even coffee?" I ask every year for 30 some years now.

"Not even coffee," he answers, exasperated with me.

Oh boy! That means that tomorrow morning I get to MAKE THE COFFEE! You have no idea how excited that makes me.
For 30+ years, Jerry, who is an earlier riser than I, has made our morning coffee that is, in my opinion, weak. We have a discussion just about every day:

"The coffee is a little weak this morning," I say.

"No it isn't. It's the same as it was yesterday. You like it to be like mud," he says.

"No I don't," I say; "I just like to be able to taste coffee and not just water."

Next morning, he rises early and makes the same weak coffee. After 30+ years of marriage you've got to pick your battles. Weak coffee is not ever going to be one of them.

I get a chance to make it my way when he's away, on hunting trips or fishing expeditions, when I have the coffee-maker all to myself. That's when the fun begins.

Other wives may contemplate having an affair or running wild with the credit card at Bloomingdale's. I fantasize about a strong, handsome, rich cup of joe--the stronger the better; maybe I'll even have to add a little H2O to my cup to weaken it--but it'll be just as I like it.
Coffee is such an essential food and ritual in my life. It's been part of what makes going to Europe so appealing--the coffee there is much better than here and differs from country to country in wonderful ways.

I can actually recall outstanding individual cups I've had. For example once, years ago, in Sweden I was served a huge white cup and saucer at a train station and with it a delicious, crunchy butter cookie on the side.

I remember another time at a yoga retreat center where coffee (also alcohol, drugs, ibuprofen, acetaminophen, anything you might use to get you through the day) was banned. I lasted through one morning and knew I was in trouble. I left the retreat, found a K-Mart and bought a coffee maker and all the accoutrements. My headache disappeared and the heady smell of coffee wafting through the center woke up the caffeine-starved who were drawn to my room like zombies.

One of the fondest coffee memories I have is of my old friend Kim making coffee for me and some friends in the first generation of Chemex coffee-makers. I had never seen one but I was a connoisseur of black-coffee even then. It must have been 1975--what a great cup of coffee he made.

I think I still have one of those beakers in the basement.

Years ago I remember singeing the signature rawhide tassel tied around the "waist" of the Chemex pot when I left it on a burner too long. Maybe I'll dig it out and use it in the morning. After all, Jerry won't be joining me for the morning ritual.

Maybe I'll even make espresso...

~all the pictures in this post are from google images~

Radish Resurgency

2010-09-16T20:00:00.000-04:00

I can't think of anything less Italian than radishes. We never had them in our house as kids. I don't remember Mom ever cooking with them or serving them or sneaking them into our lunch boxes. To me, radishes have always been fillers-- decoration for those crudites or cheese platters you order from the supermarket or find at mediocre food events (like Guido-style family weddings and such).

Anyway, lately it seems radishes have become the darling of the farmers market crowd, with recipes and references to them popping-up on countless food blogs and gardening sites. So I started to pay attention.

Although you can find the ordinary round ones year-round in the supermarket, fresh radishes have a short season--spring. And there are various types: round and red, round and white, long and red, long and white. I tried a recipe for braising them, which I found on Elissa Altman's blog, Poor Man's Feast, but was disappointed--the work to satisfaction ratio was all wrong. And everyone seems to swoon over the simple duet of radishes and butter, but I failed to feel the love. Then I read about Italian radishes, il candela di fuoco, on the food blog of a chef named Erica De Mane. Erica calls herself "a skinny Guinea," which I find offensive, but then again I find a lot of blogs offensive. But Erica gives a recipe for radishes with anchovies. I love anchovies. I think they make most savory dishes taste better--it's that umami thing. So I'm passing along this recipe, unadulterated, from Erica's blog even though I haven't tried it myself. If you try it first, let me know how it turns out.

Radish and Anchovy Antipasto
From Eric DeMane's food blog

(Serves 6 as an antipasto)

2 bunches of very crisp, round red radishes, washed, stemmed, and halved
5 oil-packed anchovies
½ a small garlic clove
About 4 tablespoons very fruity extra-virgin olive oil (preferably a Sicilian variety such as Ravida; Tuscan oil, I find, adds too much bitterness)
A handful of lightly toasted pine nuts
Freshly ground black pepper
A palmful of tender celery leaves, left whole

Place the radishes in a serving bowl.

With a mortar and pestle, grind the anchovies with the garlic, adding the olive oil a little at a time. You’ll want a fairly smooth consistency, but it’s okay if it still has some texture. Pour this over the radishes, add a few grindings of black pepper, add the pine nuts, and give it a toss. The sauce should be a little loose, so add a bit more oil if you think you need it. Right before serving, scatter on the celery leaves. Serve at room temperature.